


channeling angels in a new age

by Frival, strawberrypopsicles



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Brothers America & England (Hetalia), Cold War, Enemies to Friends, Established Relationship, Historical Hetalia, Historical References, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Jealousy, Letters, Lovers to enemies to lovers, M/M, Memories, Minor America/Ukraine (Hetalia), Minor Belrus/Lithuania (Hetalia), Minor England/France (Hetalia), Minor Germany/North Italy (Hetalia), Minor Injuries, Minor Violence, Mutual Pining, One-Sided America/Japan (Hetalia), Political Alliances, Politics, Pop Culture, Post-World War II, War, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:40:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26555236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frival/pseuds/Frival, https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberrypopsicles/pseuds/strawberrypopsicles
Summary: historical rusame taking place from the 1940s to the late 2000s
Relationships: America/Russia (Hetalia)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 35





	1. if my man was fighting some unholy war i would be beside him

**Author's Note:**

> hi, welcome to the first chapter of channeling angels in a new age.
> 
> this fic is essentially a bunch of chronological one shots focused on rusame from the 1940s to the late 2000s, though expect chapters to get longer as we move along  
> you can expect weekly updates for the most part (edit 11/27/20: not rlly lol)  
> to start off with we'd like to clarify that this is being written by two people who are part of a long dead fandom (frival and strawberrypopsicles)  
> we wanted to combine the power of our brains to make our own historical canon and write it out for others to read, since ours is definitely the only correct canon out there 
> 
> second, we will have a series of matching playlists to go with each decade. in them will be the songs we used to name and inspire each chapter, not all of them are complete but eventually they will be. we won't link each playlist until the final chapter of each decade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> france and england discuss the fact that france is fucked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just to gloss over this first chapter, yes it's france/england. this is DEFINIELY a rusame fic, it just takes like three chapters to actually get to them, so sorry luvs

**_May 10th, 1940 - Manchester, England_ **

* * *

Francis looked quite handsome with his hair cut short, Arthur decided. It looked to be much curlier, and was overall a more pleasing look-- in Arthur’s eyes, at least. Just by the way he kept running a pale hand through it the French nation wasn’t very inclined to agree. 

When the Great War came along it brought its disgusting, muddy, bacteria-infested trenches with it. So, for practicality, Francis took (or was more so _forced)_ to cut his hair up to his ears. Because, as it turns out, maintaining his “long, silky locks” on the new battlefield _wasn’t_ something the Frenchman could manage.

Arthur won five quid that day. Five quid he _still_ has yet to receive, mind you. 

Francis was quite excited when the war had ended, Arthur remembers.

“ _Soon, Angleterre,”_ he had said. “ _Things will be back to normal, and I won’t have to look like you!”_ How foolish he was then, to assume such things.

However, there were more matters at hand a bit more important than haircuts. Arthur stopped his staring, suddenly becoming self-aware and a bit flushed--France’s concerns were too far elsewhere to notice his lingering looks, fortunately-- and returned his gaze to the slip of paper in front of him. 

**Received at**

**0527**

**SURRENDER NOW. MAKE THIS EASIER FOR US BOTH.**

**Germany.**

The telegram had arrived earlier that day and almost immediately France requested to meet with him. Why? Arthur wasn’t sure, though he assumed Francis just wished from some company as he processed the warning. 

The Brit exhaled slowly and rubbed his forehead. “He’s on your land now, Francis. You know where he’s going, and what he’ll do to you.” 

It was true, what he said. He and Francis knew perfectly well what Hitler’s intentions were. He wanted the French people to feel the same humiliation that Germany had felt years ago, and he knew that with France in its current state it would be fairly painless. It greatly concerned Arthur, both personally and as a political ally. Should France surrender, England would be left practically alone to protect Europe.

“It will be fine. He’s invading me the _exact_ same way he did before in 1914. How predictable, no? Plus, we have _la ligne Maginot._ ” Francis’s accent was thick and smooth as he spoke, which under normal circumstances would be irritating to Arthur’s ears. Now, however, it was a comfort to hear something so familiar. 

He found the words vexing. “You seem very at ease given the circumstances, especially after the decade we just had.” England took a slow sip of the cup of tea in front of him and grimaced slightly--it was French. He was mentally kicking himself for complying with Francis' plea to bring the food and beverages from his place. 

“Ah,” Francis looked up and shrugged, “If worse comes to be, then we have _Chère_ America to come to the rescue, as he did before.” The joke didn’t have the same punch he usually gave, and the tired smile that graced his face was all the more a dead give away. It appears he wasn’t as at ease as Arthur originally thought.

Arthur pushed that to the back of his mind, though, the mention of America causing him to set his cup down a bit harder than he intended. “That bastard made sure to make clear that this time it’s not _his_ problem. Unless--” he laughed breathily, shaking his head. “--something comes by that affects him directly. Selfish prick, he is!” 

Arthur remembers that first meeting he had with America; having to swallow his pride and nearly plead for help. He tried his best to get across to the younger nation how _devastating_ another war would be for Europe, and America said that he would speak to his boss about it. The next day, the United States released a statement of neutrality. 

France sat up straighter, his tan-green uniform ruffling, eyebrows furrowed. Arthur decided a long time ago that he _hated_ when the nation looked at him like that-- like he was concerned for the other nation. “Arthur, it will be okay. _Je Promets.”_ Francis had been saying that a lot lately. “I am sure America cares, he's just being… himself.”

England picked at the cuff of his own uniform sleeve and sneered. It felt looser than it did months ago. “He has a really shit way of showing it.”

“You know just as well as I do that he has his reasons,” France said, voice stern. “I cannot say I blame him. He doesn’t want to go to war with-”

Arthur groaned, “Don’t talk about him. I don’t want to. He’s even more of a dick than America is.” 

Francis nodded and leaned back. The room was silent for a moment, the room filled with uncertainty. Arthur’s head snapped to the side, admiring what was left to admire of his garden. Roses wilted on their bushes, dead marigolds and petunias scattered their lifeless petals on the bricks. The air smelled bitter. He couldn’t complain, though, it was Arthur’s fault that they were dying. It’s quite difficult to keep his garden alive when his own country seems to be on the brink of death itself. He felt dejected. 

The two picked at their sickenly sweet French pastries and swirled their bitter drinks for a while before France spoke up again, 

“Shouldn’t you be greeting your new Prime Minister right now?” He smirked a bit; eyes missing their usual glint. Arthur took a moment to realize that Francis seemed thinner than usual, cheeks ever so slightly sunken. “I never realized you enjoyed my company so much you would ignore your diplomatic matters to have lunch.” It was a light-hearted jab, England knew, meant to relieve the uneasiness of war talk. 

Arthur smiled at this, “I’ll have you know I was waiting for you to give me a good reason to kick your arse out of my garden. Thank you for not taking long.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song we've chosen for this chapter is Some Unholy War - Amy Winehouse


	2. i will not hear what you have to say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> alfred receives an unexpected (very expected) visit from his brother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we promise russia will show up soon

**_June 15th, 1940 - Washington D.C., USA,_ **

* * *

Alfred, upon hearing about France, immediately began to mentally prepare himself for a visit from his brother. He was shocked when he read the newspaper this morning, headlines of the fall of Paris were front and center. Never did he think this “war” would actually turn into a _war._ Perhaps that was naive of him, though, seeing as he thought the same thing twenty-six years ago.

As he expected, England appeared on his doorstep the very next day. A bang of the door announced the nation’s arrival. America rose from his chair and set the paper he was reading down. (Headlined, of course, “ _France Surrenders!”_ ) When he opened the door, the expression Alfred was met with told him that Arthur was _not_ in the mood for small talk. 

He chose to ignore that.

“Oh! Hey, Arthur. I was not expecting you at all! How-” Alfred didn’t get the chance to finish his sentence as England pushed past him into the apartment, black military boots stomping on the plush carpet of the living room. 

“ _You_ ,” England jabbed a finger at him, red face scrunched with resentment. “You _have_ to get involved now, you have no excuse.” He looked drained and disgruntled-- sand-colored hair an unkempt mess, which Alfred only knew happened whenever his brother was having a particularly hard time. 

Alfred stood with his mouth agape and tried to stutter out a sentence. Maybe he should have prepared a monologue for this. “I-”

“No!” The other nation stepped closer. “I’m _alone_ , Alfred, don’t you see that? Francis is-” Arthur paused. “France is out. You _must_.” 

Alfred looked everywhere but at the nation in front of him. Unwelcomed guilt tugged away at his chest and stomach. “Look, Arthur, this whole… _war thing_ isn’t really jiving with my people.” He said slowly, testing the waters. “They don’t want to be dragged down by another foreign conflict. They’re _tired_.”

Arthur shouted “HA!” He walked closer to Alfred and said, “Your people can’t be _tired_ , you’ve been sitting on your asses for two decades now!” Alfred went rigid and mentally replayed what was just spoken. Oh, absolutely not. 

He finally met Arthur’s eye--now it was _his_ turn to shout, “Sitting on our _asses?_ For the past decade, my people have been struggling to put as much as a loaf of bread on the table; They’re struggling to find jobs-- losing their homes. We’re in financial _ruin_ , Arthur!” He turned away. “It’s no wonder they want nothing to do with this war, especially given how fucking useless the last one was!”

“This is different, Alfred! He’s a _threat_ now! He, Italy, Russia-- they’re all-” 

Alfred wanted more than anything to end this conversation before it could go the direction that he knew it was about to take. “You had every chance to stop it, and you didn’t. Look at where that got you! Why should I have to pick up your mess?”

England’s eyebrows furrowed. “What? Did you expect France and I to just sit there and watch Germany invade the entirety of Europe? We tried to stop it--many times. They all _failed_. He’s getting too powerful.” 

Alfred scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure Czech and Slovakia _really_ appreciated y'all's efforts to stop Germany; not even being allowed at the meeting about their own country must’ve been real nice, yeah? Don’t give yourself too much credit.” 

It struck a nerve. “You were as every bit a part of that as I was! Don’t pretend that you didn’t let him get this far-”

America was getting more and more frustrated with England’s pushing. “Once again, it’s not my fucking problem! I’m on the other side of the ocean, you can’t expect me to care.” 

Arthur said nothing for a minute. He just stared at the other, expression unreadable, before exhaling--exhausted, “You know, Alfred, as a Nation there are times where you have to set aside personal relations in favor of doing what’s best. I know you and--for whatever bloody reason--Ivan have something going on right now but-” 

Alfred choked. “What does that have to do with _anything_ ? I haven’t spoken to him in months. I- not after Poland.” It was true, he hasn’t. To be quite frank, it was unpleasant to think about. It just didn’t make sense to him, _why_ Ivan would team up with the enemy-- with someone he’s never expressed a fondness for. 

“That doesn’t mean you’re not friends. Or that you don’t care, because it’s quite obvious you do.” 

Alfred threw his hands in the air in defeat. “So what if I do, okay? What’s wrong with me not wanting to declare war on him? Of course, I would honestly prefer not to. I’d expect you, of all people, to know something about that.”

Arthur briefly looked offended at the accusation. “I do, but _I_ know when to put personal feelings aside in these circumstances. I put my allies first; _you’re_ only concerned about what’s good for America.” 

He waited for a response, but when America offered none the Brit walked towards the door; clearly done with the conversation, and feeling overcome. Alfred glanced down at his feet, and then up again at his brother, his hand twisting the knob. America huffed--he may regret this. When did he start caring about his brother again? He preferred when it was the late seventeen-hundreds and seeing Arthur walk out the door was like Christmas coming early. “Wait.” 

England looked back at him, silent, hand never leaving the doorknob as he waited for him to continue. 

“Maybe I can work something out with my boss. He’s been…” he paused, “... concerned about what’s been going on over there. I’m still adamant about not providing military support but we could probably offer some military _supplies--_ and loans.” 

Arthur didn’t respond for a minute. Then, he nodded, uttered a “Thank you,” and closed the door behind him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song we've chosen for this chapter is The Cave - Mumford and Sons


	3. the price of your greed is your son and your daughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> russia and england exchange letters

**_June 23rd, 1941 - Moscow, Russia_ **

* * *

Russia would be lying to say he didn’t see this coming. He knew Germany was full of shit the moment he spoke of how “ _overjoyed”_ he was to be allied with him. Ivan _knew_ Germany was going to strike, he just hadn’t known _when_. 

July 22nd, apparently; yesterday. 

The gruff thumps of his footsteps echoed off the walls of the Kremlin. He walked slowly, taking in the scenery of his country’s most iconic landmark. It’s round architecture and vibrant colors against the grayness of his land- it reminded him of illustrations from American children’s books. Centuries of history and culture was woven into every crevice it contained, the entire tower itself showcasing just how far he and his people have come as a country.

Ivan would be _damned_ if he let all that be taken from him by someone like Ludwig. 

He has never liked Germany, that was no secret. There was no reason to. Ludwig had this humble arrogance and aloofness about him as if he was both perfectly aware and unaware of the fact that he was powerful enough to cause global unrest. _Twice._ How he managed to get the loyalty of someone like Italy, someone so very opposite in nearly every way, Ivan could never guess. 

So, Russia played it smart. He bought his people, and himself, time to prepare. He bought them a few brief months of protection and security. He warned the allies of an invasion that was likely to come, and what his plan was for when it happened. Though, he could still sense the hostility that came with allying with their enemy; England, in particular, was more than willing to be a bit nasty--nothing new there, however. 

This was quite ironic considering he was the man Ivan was now writing a letter to. He plucked a pen up from his desk and began to write. 

_Dear Mr. England,_

_It would seem that I find myself in such a position that requires me to ask for assistance from you and of Mr. China. As we had predicted months before this letter, Germany had plans in mind that conflicted with my interests._

_I ask you to understand my reasoning for doing what I did, as it was a protective measure. I was uncertain that the Allied Powers-- at the time you and Monsieur France-- had my country’s protection in mind. Furthermore, I wished to gain more time for my people to ready themselves for another global conflict. As you may recall, the War to End All Wars, in addition to inner conflict, put Russia in an unfortunate position. We were not ready to declare war on a nation that has easy access to our borders._

_If I am correct, you were made aware of my intentions to join the Allied Powers should such an event occur, and this should not be surprising for you. I expect to be welcomed and treated as an ally since that is what we are now. Do not make the same mistake he did._

_Deep Regards,_

_Russia_

Days later, an envelope was dropped onto his desk, on top of his briefings. He uttered a “thank you” to the staff member that delivered it. Ivan already knew who it was from without having to glance at the name scribbled in perfected cursive. He took out the letter opener that played in the back of his desk drawer and pulled the paper out with haste.

It read: 

_Dear Mr. Russia,_

_I am well aware of the conflict now occurring in Eastern Europe with Germany and yourself. As you stated, a German invasion of the Soviet Union had been a long time coming; surely from the moment you sat down with Mr. Germany in Moscow two years ago._

_To be candid, however, I am hesitant about granting you the trust one would give an ally. Your reasoning for joining forces with Germany confuses me, Mr. Russia. I believe your neutrality would have been plenty of time to prepare for the conflict emerging--perhaps it would have granted you even more time. In my opinion, your alliance with Germany, if anything, accomplished nothing but hastening the inevitable war in Europe. You do recall what officially began the war, don’t you? It was. Germany and yourself invading Poland together after Monsieur. France and I made it perfectly clear that taking that action would mean war._

_I believe you’re being untruthful in saying the Soviet Union’s motives were to prepare its citizens. I believe the Molotov-Ribbentrop pact was nothing more than a power grab that benefited only your Union and, of course, Germany. Usually, I’m not incredibly keen on offering my hand to those who helped my enemy. However, despite my grievance in allying with you, I see defeating Germany as my highest priority, one that now seems to be in both of our interests. You are “welcomed as an ally” but my trust and the “treatment” that comes with being my ally will come when all is earned._

_I will be sure that China is made aware of your entry to the Allied Powers._

_Sincerely,_

_The United Kingdom_

Russia would be lying to say he didn’t crumple up that letter and toss it into the fireplace that sat in his office. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song we've chosen for this chapter is Blood // Water - grandson
> 
> edgy? yes. does it fit? yes.


	4. i will not ask you and neither would you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> alfred and ivan have a long-awaited conversation

**_December 8th, 1941- Washington D.C., USA_ **

* * *

“I must say, America,” Arthur was standing, arms tucked, looking down at the signed papers in front of them. “You and Russia have impeccable timing.”

Alfred snorted and glanced towards the mentioned nation. Ivan was seated across from him, head resting in his left hand; the always present white scarf covered the lower half of his face, though his eyes were squinting in mild amusement. 

“Yeah, well, things happen.” He said, rubbing his nose with his coat sleeve. Alfred knew his joining of the war was inevitable, especially given Roosevelt’s pending interest in joining the European war. America hadn’t been truly neutral for some time now, anyways. He just didn’t expect it to happen the way it did-- or from who it came. 

“Indeed they do,” Ivan piped in. 

Ivans’s gaze on him was unwavering--a silent trick to get Alfred’s attention. Alfred stared back, in response, waiting to see what the Russian wanted. Seconds later, Ivan’s finger began to tap on the table in short, careful, and calculated movements. 

Alfred broke eye contact, instead of finding the white walls in front of him _very interesting_ all of a sudden--trying to hide his smile in the hemline of his jacket. 

He cleared his throat. “I- uh... I’m gonna go use the bathroom.” Arthur looked up at him with a raised brow, but nodded, excusing him. He scooted his chair away from the table and left the room, softly shutting the door behind him, and leaned against it; listening. 

After a few minutes, he heard the muffled sounds of Ivan’s voice excusing himself and the screeching of a chair. The door opened behind him, pushing him off it. He smiled to himself before reaching around the knob to grasp the other’s sleeve, pulling him away and down the hall-- just far enough so England couldn’t eavesdrop. This part of the White House was vacant, save for the three Nations occupying it. Not Alfred’s ideal date spot, but this was as romantic as it was gonna get for now. 

The moment Alfred felt they were at a safe distance, he turned to face Ivan. They stood there for a moment--silent, staring. Then, he spoke up, unable to keep a small grin from cracking his lips. 

“Hey.” 

Ivan was shy, Al knew this (despite the Russian insisting otherwise). He was shy and timid and careful-- especially with something like this. “It’s...been a while,” he said. 

A while actually meant two years-- two years since Alfred has had an actual conversation with him. It was weird, going so long without much company after spending many of the decades following the first war together. 

“Dа, it has been,” Ivan replied, eyes fixated and unfocused on the painting behind Alfred.

“You remembered our secret code,” Alfred teased, more than anything to break through the wall that’s been built between them. That got the other to smile a little. 

“Of course I did, it is morse code. Not easy to forget, after using it many times,” he nodded as he spoke, though he still wasn’t looking at his companion. 

“Yeah, but that was like _our_ thing. It’s… special.” Ivan said nothing in reply, continuing to avert his eyes to anywhere but the American in front of him. Alfred ran a gloved hand through his hair and sighed deeply. “What did you ask me out here for, Ivan?”

The Russian clicked his tongue-- those eyes, those _damn_ eyes, why weren’t they looking at him? “To be honest, I am not sure. I suppose I wanted to see if you were alright.” _You_. Something soft and tight bubbled up in Alfred’s chest, tugged at his heart, making his whole body feel light and warm. 

“I should be asking you that question,” he said, his voice losing its tenseness. Ivan’s face flickered, fell, for just a moment, but it was enough. “Hey, look at me.” 

Alfred reached up to gently graze the others cheek, Ivan’s gaze finally settling on the man in front of him--hesitantly, still--eyes dim. 

He leaned in, slowly, until his lips brushed against Ivan’s-- just barely there. The other sighed, breath ghosting over Alfred’s lips. They stayed like that for a second, breathing and feeling and waiting for _something_ . Tentatively, Ivan cupped the younger nation’s cheeks in his palms and tilted his face upwards. Alfred huffed and gripped Ivan’s tan coat firmly, pulling him in those last few centimeters. He could appreciate Russia’s caution, but not mimic it. Ivan’s hands moved up to his cheeks to gently tilt his head, the other’s hands moving up to card his fingers through the Russian’s now hair, ruining its original neatness. It was warm, and careful, and lovely, and _Christ_ how much Alfred’s had missed this. 

Nothing else existed in that very moment, yet it felt like it was all over in an instant. They pulled away, and he wrapped his arms around Ivan and laid his head on the others shoulder, keeping him close. “I missed you.” 

Russia returned the embrace, resting his cheek and softly pressing his lips against Alfred's head-- and said nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song we've chosen for this chapter is Like Real People Do - Hozier


	5. but i know we'll meet again some sunny day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> france and england exchange letters about the world around them

**_August 13th, 1942- Manchester, England_ **

* * *

_ Francis,  _ _ August 13th, 1942 _

_ I deem it necessary, due to your current circumstances, that I communicate recent events with you via letter. First, before I speak on the rather trivial matters I am writing this for, I’d like to inquire about what you have been up to recently.  _

_ I’ve had news of your...escapades. Cutting off telephone wires, blowing up railways-- quite smart for the French, I’m impressed. I shouldn’t have expected any less from you all, with how irritatingly stubborn and-- to be frank-- incautious the French tend to be; with you at the head of it all, nonetheless. I am certain that the Germans find this extremely inconveniencing, which gives you more of a reason to continue with your work. I wish-- on the behalf of The United Kingdom-- you and the resistance the best of luck. _

_ Moving on to my desired topic--I cannot stand that Russia. Our bosses recently had the displeasure of meeting for the very first time yesterday afternoon, and the Prime Minister shares the same opinion as me. I, knowing Russia for as long as I have, have always known his...undiplomatic habits. You would think, given the event, that formal attire would be of top priority. The first thing a man notices about another is the way he chooses to present himself, though the Russians don’t seem to be aware of that.  _

_ In addition to his distasteful dress, I find it extremely difficult to speak to Russia. He is distant and keeps his replies short. He never makes eye contact and has an amusingly weak handshake considering how fit he is. I hope you can tell how displeased I am with being forced to work with him for the given reasons.  _

_ For your benefit, I will end this here. Please try and be hasty with a response so I know to expect your putrid presence soon.  _

_ Vive La France, _

_ Arthur _

  
  


**_August 17th, 1942- Paris, France_ **

* * *

_My dearest, Arthur_ _August 17th, 1942_

_ As much as I find your political school girl gossip to be humorous, I’d first like to express how overjoyed I am to finally hear from you after all this time. Seeing your name scribbled down on the envelope was like the sun peeking out from the cloudy abyss of war. I long for the day I can see you again, mon chéri. Until then, though, I’ll have to make the best of simply writing to you.  _

_ I know how much you claim  _ to  _ “loathe” my sappiness, so I shall move on. You and I both know that Russia has never been one to care much about diplomacy, and given his distaste for you, I’m certainly not surprised he did not bother to make much of an impression. It, of course, could simply be a cultural difference. I personally find English fashion to be deplorable. I think a terrible wardrobe is something you and Russia could bond over.  _

_ In all seriousness, Arthur, Ivan truly is not as terrible as you make him out to be sometimes. I won’t deny that he can be difficult to talk to, and I do sympathize with your uncertainty to be allied with him, but I’m confident he will be a valuable asset in defeating Germany. Quite honestly, I’m becoming more hopeful that things might start looking up for the Allied powers now that you two, along with America, are working together.  _

_ I wish more than anything that I could be with you all helping directly in the fight against Germany, though, as you said, La Résistance has been working hard to sabotage Germany from the inside. I cannot share much more than that about what we’re doing; simply know that the French people have never truly stopped fighting.  _

_ If all begin to go well, hopefully, one day we will have the opportunity to work together with the United Kingdom and its allies; but until then, mon amour, do not get too lonely and grumpy (more than usual, of course) without my presence at the ally meetings. I can only imagine how much of a third wheel you are.  _

_ We’ll meet again,  _

_ Francis  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song we've chosen for this chapter is We'll Meet Again - Vera Lynn
> 
> sorry UsUk stans


	6. 6. comfortable silence is so overrated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tehran conference and all that. shit (kinda) goes down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you saw us forgetting to update last week no you didn't <3  
> school has been an absolute ass kicker. i hate junior year - strawberrypopsicles (i actually posted the update for once good for me)

_**November 29th, 1943 - Tehran Soviet Embassy, Iran**_

* * *

Though the change of scenery from snow-covered war-torn fields to the white walls of the embassy was a warm welcome, Ivan couldn’t help but feel as though he shouldn’t be here. Everything was simply too jarring of a difference. Comfortable beds, warm food, and heat-- all so different from the months spent out in frostbitten red-stained wastelands.

The whiplash of such a change was almost enough to drive Russia mad. The skin around his things grew more torn by the day, and the beds of his nails were more prominent from abuse-- he had caught Alfred staring at his hands on several occasions within the first day of the conference. At one point, as they passed each other in the hall, the American gripped his hand and pulled it up to inspect the damage. The sudden touch made Russia rip his hand away and speed off to his room; the next seven minutes were spent trying to slow the heavy rise and fall of his chest.

Despite the hunger eating away at the walls of his stomach, he couldn’t stand the idea of eating even a bite of the small feast that had been prepared at dinner. Every time he got a whiff of the thick beef stew from the other’s bowls (it was such a tragic delicacy compared to the turnip made bread that made up most of the meals in the trenches) the urge to vomit on the British Prime Minister's suit became ever more appealing.  
That was only the first day.

“On the topic of France,” England said, voice tight. “The United States and Great Britain have agreed on a cross-channel invasion. Two, to be exact.”

America cut in, his hands were folded on the table. “Operations Overlord and Dragoon,” he coughed and looked directly at Russia. “This invasion will be nothing like anything is ever done before, it will quite literally be a full invasion of Europe,” Ivan was willing to bet that Alfred found that a little comedic on his end. “We ask that the Soviet Union-”

“We plan to launch an offensive, the German’s must not be allowed to move fronts. We have planned for this for a while now,” Russia kept his voice hard and even. “Should these operations succeed, it will surely mean the end of the war.”

England nodded and said, “Yes, and the liberation of France. We get France back, and it’s child's play to chase them back into Germany. As proven by Dunkirk--” now, Ivan knew Dunkirk was a touchy subject for England to discuss. From accounts, it was a terrifying and hopeless situation for French and English troops alike-- a race against time. This was the first time he’s heard the British nation mention it. “-- a quick cross of the English channel is possible. Though anyone could’ve guessed that,” England mumbled that last bit.

Ivan was curious, so he asked: “Will China take part in this?”

“China has been extremely occupied in the Pacific; The Japanese are turning out to be… quite the enemy. He will not be lending support for these operations. Though, the States are splitting resources between the war in Europe and the East, to ease the burden on both fronts,” England responded. America nodded along to what his brother was saying, but for once choosing to not say anything. This was unusual for him-- such quiet and timid behavior; the man looked ready to jump out of his skin.

“When will you launch the assault?”

England sniffed. “We hope to do so in a year, though only time will tell,” he said.

Ivan’s stomach knotted-- a year? That’s…

He shook his head. “No, it must be sooner, I can’t-- we can’t hold out for that long.”

America sucked on his bottom lip and looked at Ivan with such a raw look; it almost hurt to make eye contact. “I’m sorry,” it said. That, if anything, the pity that America looked at him with, like he understood at all what this was doing to his people.

“Well,” England snapped, “that’s not our problem, is it? We’re quite occupied in the west and Africa, currently, and America is-- as I said earlier-- hopping from island to island in the middle of the bloody ocean--”

Russia hit the table loud enough to prevent the British nation from speaking any further. “First of all,” he said, “you will not insult me or my people by implying that their suffering isn’t your problem. We are allies, and you’ve proven to be very determined to ignore that.”

England’s chest rose slowly as he set his shoulders back, trying to appear larger. Russia briefly thought, amused, that he looked a bit like a ruffled hedgehog. Russia continued. “Secondly, I think America can speak for himself,” he turned to the mentioned nation. “Correct?”

America’s eyes widened, then he coughed into his fist, nodded, and looked down. “Yeah, I can. Thanks, England.” His brother looked down at him, looking offended at America’s sudden willingness to speak.

“Christ--” the blonde rubbed his forehead, “I think this meeting can be adjourned, actually. We’ve discussed more than enough today, and clearly-- despite your best efforts, Russia-- you have no choice but to accept our timeframe.”

And that’s how the meeting ended, with Alfred excusing himself and leaving Ivan alone to deal with the awkwardness of Arthur’s bad mood before the Brit left without exchanging formal farewells.

Ivan was drained afterward, both Mentally and physically--which wasn’t anything new, truthfully, considering his usual conditions. Though, he hadn’t expected the meeting to be what sucked the last ounce of composure out of him--especially on only day two--but, in hindsight, it isn’t much of a surprise either.

The walls of the embassy were plain--a dull shade of red, which Ivan was immensely thankful for; loud colors aren't a remedy for a pounding headache. It was a pleasant shift from the bright snow he had become all too accustomed to.

Before he knew it, the chipped door to his room was staring back at him. Without a second thought, his keys were in the lock, and he was stepping foot into the confinements of his room. Ivan resisted the urge to pass out right there on the carpet.

Logically, he should collect his composure, mentally recap the meeting, and think of points and rebuttals he can bring up for the next one. But the lull of the soft mattress and warmth of the comforter was all the more tempting. So, for once, he allowed sleep to cage him in.

Unfortunately, the tentative--yet persistent--knocking outside had other plans for him.

“Can we talk?” the knocks spelled out, and Ivan tensed immediately, eyes darting open. He stayed put in his bed, hoping that whoever it was (he knows who) would take his silence as a firm no. Another string of insistent knocking patterns, this time saying “Please”, proved that wasn’t going to happen.

Ivan pulled himself out of bed and, begrudgingly, walked to the door. He stood in front of it for a moment; contemplating his next move. Dragging a hand down his face, he opened the door. “Yes, America?”

America gawked at the other--caught off guard for a few seconds--before speaking, “How did you know it was me?”

Russia stared at him blankly, as if the answer was the most obvious thing in the world (it was). Alfred blinked at him and shrugged off his silence, and the question, opting to move on to what he was here for.

“Why have you been avoiding me?”

Russia sighed, tiredly. In the back of his mind, he knew a confrontation was going to happen. Of course, though, since it was Alfred, it was happening at midnight when anyone sane would be tucked away in their bed.

“I am tired, can we discuss this tomorrow?” His voice grew softer, “Please?”

Alfred chuckled nervously and pushed his fingers through blonde hair. “Uh, I’d like to now, so I can rest easy tonight. You’ve been acting weird these past few days and I just wanted to-”

There was no point in beating around the bush, Ivan decided. “America, I have been away for months in the ruins of my country. I have been fighting for eastern Europe alone, and my only two allies do not seem very concerned about the situation they put me and my people in,” He huffed. “So excuse me if my frustration brings you discomfort.”

He watched Alfred’s entire demeanor changed then; concern switched to disbelief on his features in an instant. “What are you talking about? Today-- that’s what today was about. France, opening a second front, we aren’t ignoring you,” The American spoke desperately, sounding so distraught that it only made Ivan’s nerve prickle more than they already were.

“We just can’t rush into this, Russia!” his voice was raised, though not enough to disturb the others who resided in this hallway. Great, now he’s going to rant, Ivan thought.

“You should understand that more than anyone. England and I are trying our best to get the invasion of France going, but there’s a lot of factors to take into account.”

“I have been asking you, for years, America. Why was it only discussed now? Why must my people wait, even now?

Alfred’s face softened--slightly; the lingering twinge of irritation didn’t go unnoticed. “I’ve-we’ve been trying, Ivan, we really have. I mean, we’ve been giving your soldiers supplies when we can, we’re not ignoring you. But I’m fighting this war in two different parts of the world, and England’s getting his fair share of bombings. You’re not the only one struggling.”

The urge to slam the door in America’s face was a hard one to resist. “I do not think you understand just how bad it is out there. My people are dropping like flies. I have seen it, America, have you?”

The other nation scrunched his face. “If you’re asking if I’ve been out there, on duty, then yes. I’ve seen just as much death as you have, Russia. I’ve seen what it’s done to you--” Alfred said, voice cracking.

Dizziness slammed into his skull and suddenly his stomach twisting with something that wasn’t supposed to be there. Exasperation laced his voice when he spoke, “Go to your room, Alfred. This conversation is not getting us anywhere.” Ivan hadn’t thought he could get more tired.

America stood there, silent for a moment. “You’re a real dick sometimes, you know that?” His eyebrows were furrowed, hard eyes bored into Ivan’s--expecting. Alfred’s eyes had always been bright--too bright, for him. Too loud. Ivan focused on the dull red wall.

After a moment too long, Ivan spoke up, “Goodnight, Alfred.” It was a polite demand that he leave, they both knew it. He didn’t wait for a response, though, before shutting the door. He leaned against it for a moment, and when the sound of heavy footsteps grew distant, he sunk to the ground, placed his head on his knees, and let out the deepest breath he’s taken in months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song we've chosen for this chapter is From the Dining Table - Harry Styles


	7. je vois la vie en rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> liberation of paris, arthur and francis unite, it's sorta sappy. fruk focused chapter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow hi its been *checks watch* .... six weeks. whoops! there goes our "weekly upload schedule". rip 2020-2020  
> per usual, school has been kicking our asses into the ground .. and now pair that with a general lack of motivation to click clack letters on a keyboard to google docs.  
> also my stupid co-writer broke their computer so i'll be the one writing these chapter notes for now on <3  
> \- strawberrypopsicles

**_August 23rd, 1944- Paris, France_ **

* * *

Cleaning up, Arthur decided, was his least favorite part of war. War as it turned tended to turn everything it could reach to shambles, and, much like a toddler, make off without an ounce of remorse. Paris was no exception, though arguably most of the city’s  _ physical  _ damage could be blamed on her own people-- from all the rioting and whatnot. Mentally, however, it seemed that the entirety of France was in a glorious afterglow of victory (he was), despite it’s crumbling stone streets and scorched buildings. 

“ _ Aïe _ \-- careful, Dear, that is still tender!” 

Arthur rolled his eyes at the nation sitting in the tub, soft foam gathered around him like a fortress. “You act like a child, I swear, what would you do without me here to tolerate your broken ass?” He scratched at Francis’ scalp harder than before, earning him a glare. 

“I can wash myself,  _ idiot _ ,” Francis said, flinging a handful of bubbles at Arthur but missing entirely. 

Arthur snorted at the attempted attack. “Impeccable aim you have there, love.” He reached for one of the towels hanging next to the tub and threw it over the wet splash on the floor before continuing the task at hand. “Your arm is broken; doubt it would do you much good, ” He gestured a knuckle at the casted arm that was resting on the tub's edge. 

“ _ That  _ one is, this one, however, is not,” Francis wiggled his fingers on his other hand. “I’m not incapable of taking care of myself, you know, which makes me wonder-- why are you here, Arthur?”

The other nation scrunched up his face. “What?”

“Why are you here? These past few days you ‘ave been here in my home-- washing me, cooking for me, which, by the way, I  _ really  _ wish you would at least try to follow the instructions in the book…” he rambled on. 

Arthur thought for a moment, turned the question over carefully in his mind over and over again like he has done so many times in the passing week. The answer was sitting right on the edge of his mind--there--but being neglected even a passing thought. 

Thinking back to four years ago, he saw himself sitting in the middle of a withering garden with France across from him. Even before the fight had even begun France had looked so depleted. Arthur thought of ten days after then, when he rushed all of England’s naval ability across the English channel and it  _ still _ not being enough for the 80,000 remaining troops-- British and French men alike left behind to be taken into the hands of Germany; Francis being amongst them. So many moments flashed through his mind: the headlines and that argument with America-- all of these things so different yet similar in one way: Arthur felt guilty. 

Instead of that, he instead said, “I don’t know.” 

Francis’ lips thinned into a line, doubt crossing his features as they often do when talking to his partner. “What do you mean, ‘I don’t know’, surely that is a lie.”

“I’m here, isn’t that enough? You could be grateful, or I could leave, it’s up to you.” Arthur pushed the soap and rag within Francis’s reach. “Here, since you’re so  _ capable,  _ finish washing yourself.” He pushed himself off of the wooden stool, adding a “Wanker” before leaving the bathroom. 

\----

_ England hated Paris and its labyrinth-like structure of damp alleyways and quiet streets that seemed to lead to nothing but void. He hated it especially now, at night, when rays of white only provided by the moon were the only source of light. He couldn’t help but think of how dead the city appeared. The silence was a thick fog that loomed over his head, and it was so unlike France that he might as well be in Russia.  _

_ The only sound came from his boots, clunking against the stone beneath them as he hurried across streetways from building to building. England made himself small, crouched into the shadows, and becoming a part of them as he moved along. Suddenly, a dog barked in the distance ahead of him, and he paused. A beam of ugly yellow light shot out from between the walls of two shops separated by a small road-- the one he needed to turn on. Quickly, England pressed himself against a wall of cold brick, heart skipping over itself before picking up a pace faster than before. The light scanned the area, searching for someone who was out past the curfew, before finding nothing and ducking back into where it came from.  _

_ He let out a breath, waiting a good thirty seconds before beginning his journey again.  _

_ “Dammit Francis,” he thought. “Why past curfew? Fucking stupid--”  _

_ England peaked around the next corner, saw no soldier, and turned. It was close now, the designated meeting spot that France had sent him months earlier. Something heavy sat in the pit of his stomach, fluttering and slipping throughout the rest of his body. Anxiety? Anticipation? Both? It was ridiculous really, he’s done this before. This was not his first time sneaking through Paris for a rendezvous with this ridiculous man, except those other times were for oh so different reasons and they weren’t meeting again after four years, but really it was-- _

_ There, standing beneath the ledged roof of an abandoned business, a familiar silhouette.  _

_ “France?” He whispered, then after no response, he repeated, more urgent, “Francis--”  _

_ “Angleterre?” a response came from the shadow, and relief pushed all of the air out of England’s lungs.  _

_ Arthur prayed to any entity out there that Francis couldn’t see the expression on his face, because his smile stretched so wide he was sure the other would never let him live it down. But when Francis crept closer, allowing the soft light of the moon reveal him, and a similar expression was plastered on his face, Arthur decided he didn’t care. More than anything he wanted to dash across the few feet of space separating them and embrace Francis as tight as he could. Maybe even more than that, he wanted to slap the nation across the face and say: “You bloody moron! I was alone, we almost lost, they crusaded my capital-- why, why ,why---” _

_ Except he knew he had to ground himself. They both did because at any moment another beam of light could flash in their direction and expose the most precious scheme in the war. It was too risky--they had to move, and  _ _ they _ _ will, but he let himself stand there for a second longer to bask in it all: the relief and the joy and all the other indescribable feelings that crowded together his chest.  _

_ “You are late,” the other said, creeping just a few inches closer.  _

_ England huffed quietly. “Shut up, I’m here aren’t I?”  _

_ “Oui,” an exasperated breath, “you are.”  _

_ \---- _

After having struggled greatly to dry and clothe himself with his caretaker’s presence, Francis silently watched Arthur carefully from the bathroom hallway that leads out into the living room. He saw the nation standing in front of the window on the left side of the room, bare feet imprinting the plush red carpet that covered tanned hardwood. His arms crossed, and the white button-up shirt he was wearing earlier had become untucked. He looked quite messy, honestly, and unfortunately, Francis thought it more appealing than it should have been. It was most likely the lighting working in his favor; the sun beamed through the glass, blending with pearly walls and making the room glow. Arthur’s green eyes (Francis had always been quite fond of those eyes and their vibrancy) were distant, and lips quirked into a small frown as if he were recalling an unpleasant memory.  _ Ah _ , that’s what it was. Of course. 

“What are you thinking?” 

Arthur whipped around, startled, his hand cradled close to his chest. 

“I--” he opens and closed his mouth, then waves his hand to dismiss the unfinished sentence. “Nothing, uh- tea?” 

Francis quirked an eyebrow and said, “You’re such a bad liar,  _ cher _ , ‘ave been since we were small. You always end up telling me anyway-- though it  _ often _ comes in the form of shouting-- so there is no point in sharing your thoughts now.” It was true, England has always been a terrible liar. His face is too expressive, open to read to everybody who cared enough to look and what to look for, like Francis. The nation adopted this voice when he was lying (France noticed this centuries ago); it was higher and sounded smooth compared to the normal slight gruff of his voice. It reminded France of when they were much  _ much _ younger when he would fluster or enrage England so much that the smaller child might as well have been screeching every word. 

Arthur tightened his lips and exhaled through his nose. “Saturday, and the days before then. Months, really.” 

Francis thought of Saturday as well, the vivid memory still fresh in his mind. Arthur’s face, his  _ smile _ \-- Francis is sure that the nation has never looked that overjoyed to see him in the centuries they’ve known each other. 

_ Hell, me too.  _

“What about it?”

The Brit looked back out the window, avoiding eye contact. “Well, it was weird, wasn’t it? For the life of me, I can’t  _ explain _ it but--” he paused. “this thing-- this war, it’s almost over, right? We’re here, in France, America and Canada are pushing their men along with ours closer and closer to Germany; we’re  _ squeezing _ him out of here and it’s almost _ done _ .” 

Francis gave a tilted smile, a smirk almost, “Strange,  _ n'est-ce pas?  _ After four years.”

“Four--  _ Christ _ , a lifetime really.” 

And both of them knew what a lifetime felt like; they knew what  _ several  _ felt like. That, Francis supposed, was what little beauty could be found in a war like this. Here he was, standing a few feet in front of his centuries-old enemy in the midst of war that’s nearly torn both of them to shreds. Arthur was right too; it  _ was _ almost over and somehow everything and nothing at all has changed. They will continue to live another lifetime and more after that-- hell, it was safe to assume that this wouldn’t be the last time the world will come to the brink of collapse. But despite all that, it didn’t change the fact that he is now (and will continue to be for the foreseeable future) standing next to quite possibly the only man he’s ever loved.

Francis figured that--for the sake of Arthur’s sanity--that he would not voice these musings aloud (at least for the moment.)

Now joining the Englishman at the window in a dazed silence, he nudged the other with his casted shoulder. 

“Still offering that tea?”

Arthur scowled, or  _ tried  _ to, pretending that there was not a grin pulling at his cheeks. “No, fuck off, make your own; if you can dress with one arm you can surely make tea.” 

“Ah, you are always quite the gentlemen,  _ mon cher _ .” Francis grinned, kissed the top of Arthur’s head, and headed towards the kitchen. “That’s alright, I do not wish to see my kitchen up in flames anyways.” 

“Do you  _ ever _ shut up?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song we've chosen for this chapter is La Vie en rose - Edith Piaf


End file.
